I swore from the beginning I wasn't going to do this. But here I am. Writing down my thoughts on a more or less public forum. Fuck. Also, fuck it. It's my damn blog, right? I'll do what I want. That should be read in Cartman's voice, by the way.
I'm thinking of writing this piece that is a more or less autobiographical (?) letter to someone and yet no one in particular, based on a situation I've come across. I've tried time and again to write something that isn't intensely personal, but I don't seem entirely capable of it. I can get started on something non-personal, but it more often than not very quickly ends up in personal territory.
Anyway, enough with that twaddle. I gotta get this shit out and I gotta get this shit down before it becomes a regret.
How do you counsel someone, when you're often the one in need of counseling? How do you show someone the beauty of life beyond just the breathing when you couldn't care less whether or not you lived another day? How do you handle feeling like listening is not enough, even though you know for a fact that, at this point in time, it's more than enough and means the world to that person that you didn't say a word but just listened? How do you keep yourself from becoming emotionally invested in someone when your instinct is to protect?
How do you convince someone that everything is going to be okay when you don't have a clue?
How do you tell them you care and you'll listen but that's as far as it goes because, while you care, there are red flags popping up like popcorn in hell telling you to run the fuck away?
How do you buck your nature?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Blank
I woke up in a black cloud this morning. No, that's not entirely accurate. I woke up as I always do, with the alarm rousing me into a stumbling haze of limbs as I get up and dressed for work. But I felt blank. I know that kinda goes against the black cloud metaphor. You'd think I was in more of a white void. Oh crap, there I go again mixing metaphors. And yet, it works in my mind, so fuck it. Rolling with it and all that.
I never intended for this blog to be so similar to my last blog, but here I am, documenting my latest bout of depression. I have to admit that there have been many bouts since the last time I blogged about a bout. (ha ha...) Last weekend, I archived my old blog onto my external hard drive, and I glanced at a couple of blogs in the process. Seeing the spaces between bouts gave me a real sense of... well, reality. Sometimes, I think I'm over-exaggerating my depression, but when I look back at what I've documented, I see that there has certainly been many ups and downs. And I documented them all. I stopped when I found more happiness doing something else than blogging. That is to say, I found things that made me happy, and my bouts of depression began decreasing in frequency to the point that I no longer felt like "wasting" my time documenting them. I was wrong to do that. I realize that now. I need to document. Not only that, but I need to document online. Not for any sort of attention-seeking, woe is me crap, but for anyone to put their two cents in. Call it cheap therapy. It certainly worked the first time around, and I'm certainly much better for it than when I was PAYING someone to do the same. I need to do it for the same reasons I did the last blog:
1) Document the frequency
2) Free advice
3) For anyone who happens upon this blog, maybe they have the same problems, and now they'll see they're not alone. I'm not wanting to make myself out to be a savior, but if someone gains some hope from my blogs, I'm happy.
What I won't do this time around is go into such specific detail that people know the how often I take a crap and what color and consistency it was. That sort of thing. Instead, I'm going to focus on the feelings and the images. Hence the hack n slashed metaphors.
Fuck all, if that wasn't a major diversion...okay, not a MAJOR diversion, but certainly a diversion nonetheless.
Black cloud, white void. Check.
At work today, I saw things, and I just didn't care. Nothing special happened. But I felt.... a distinct (or indistinct, if you wanna get picky) lack of feeling. Apparently, I freaked a lot of people out. I guess I'm normally a lot louder than I thought possible. When I'm not loud, people notice. I know this now. I told them it was because I was tired, and I'm pretty sure no one bought that, but no one pressed further, thankfully. After all, how do you describe blankness? It's not there, so you can't. Or if you can, then you're a far better writer than me, and that's just fine with me. I can't do it, and that, too, is fine with me. I know it's depression, even if I don't have that usual aching feeling in my chest. I'd say it's a mild case of depression, but that's not true. It's just a different kind. I'm here, and I am existing. That's about all that there is to it.
Now, it might be indicative of an end of the depression by my having the (for lack of a better word) desire to blog about it. That's certainly not a neutral or blank feeling. So maybe things are looking up. In either case, here I am, I'm documenting another bout. Fuck yeah...
I never intended for this blog to be so similar to my last blog, but here I am, documenting my latest bout of depression. I have to admit that there have been many bouts since the last time I blogged about a bout. (ha ha...) Last weekend, I archived my old blog onto my external hard drive, and I glanced at a couple of blogs in the process. Seeing the spaces between bouts gave me a real sense of... well, reality. Sometimes, I think I'm over-exaggerating my depression, but when I look back at what I've documented, I see that there has certainly been many ups and downs. And I documented them all. I stopped when I found more happiness doing something else than blogging. That is to say, I found things that made me happy, and my bouts of depression began decreasing in frequency to the point that I no longer felt like "wasting" my time documenting them. I was wrong to do that. I realize that now. I need to document. Not only that, but I need to document online. Not for any sort of attention-seeking, woe is me crap, but for anyone to put their two cents in. Call it cheap therapy. It certainly worked the first time around, and I'm certainly much better for it than when I was PAYING someone to do the same. I need to do it for the same reasons I did the last blog:
1) Document the frequency
2) Free advice
3) For anyone who happens upon this blog, maybe they have the same problems, and now they'll see they're not alone. I'm not wanting to make myself out to be a savior, but if someone gains some hope from my blogs, I'm happy.
What I won't do this time around is go into such specific detail that people know the how often I take a crap and what color and consistency it was. That sort of thing. Instead, I'm going to focus on the feelings and the images. Hence the hack n slashed metaphors.
Fuck all, if that wasn't a major diversion...okay, not a MAJOR diversion, but certainly a diversion nonetheless.
Black cloud, white void. Check.
At work today, I saw things, and I just didn't care. Nothing special happened. But I felt.... a distinct (or indistinct, if you wanna get picky) lack of feeling. Apparently, I freaked a lot of people out. I guess I'm normally a lot louder than I thought possible. When I'm not loud, people notice. I know this now. I told them it was because I was tired, and I'm pretty sure no one bought that, but no one pressed further, thankfully. After all, how do you describe blankness? It's not there, so you can't. Or if you can, then you're a far better writer than me, and that's just fine with me. I can't do it, and that, too, is fine with me. I know it's depression, even if I don't have that usual aching feeling in my chest. I'd say it's a mild case of depression, but that's not true. It's just a different kind. I'm here, and I am existing. That's about all that there is to it.
Now, it might be indicative of an end of the depression by my having the (for lack of a better word) desire to blog about it. That's certainly not a neutral or blank feeling. So maybe things are looking up. In either case, here I am, I'm documenting another bout. Fuck yeah...
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Boobs & Batman Intrusion
Fuck, I hate myself sometimes. Okay, that sounds a bit more emo than even I can stand. What I mean is, I have these sort of episodes or phases or whatever where the itch and desire to write becomes so strong, I have to talk/write about the strength of the urge, and then....nothing. I get all of these ideas floating around, and nothing happens. Then a buddy of mine starts in, rattling off all these ideas that he has that he thinks he'll do nothing with himself, and so he gives them to me, knowing that I'll probably not do anything with them except kick them around in my head for 5 minutes before I start to think about boobs or Batman again.
Sometimes, I just get the urge to write. What do I want to write? Fuck if I know, but I just want to write. So I blog. And I bitch. I make up any excuse NOT to write. The most common stumbling block is I worry about form. How should I write this line, how should I write that line? What should this guy do next? What should he say next?
Fuck it. I've got to write something, even if it kills me. This itch always comes back for more. It never goes away. I'm not going to make a resolution that I know I'm not going to keep. I just need to write and shut the fuck up. I need to say to myself, yeah, I have these excuses, but I'm going to ignore them because they aren't helping. They only make matters worse. So, fuck it. I'm gonna write whether it kills me or not.
Sometimes, I just get the urge to write. What do I want to write? Fuck if I know, but I just want to write. So I blog. And I bitch. I make up any excuse NOT to write. The most common stumbling block is I worry about form. How should I write this line, how should I write that line? What should this guy do next? What should he say next?
Fuck it. I've got to write something, even if it kills me. This itch always comes back for more. It never goes away. I'm not going to make a resolution that I know I'm not going to keep. I just need to write and shut the fuck up. I need to say to myself, yeah, I have these excuses, but I'm going to ignore them because they aren't helping. They only make matters worse. So, fuck it. I'm gonna write whether it kills me or not.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Feast on the Cat
Last night... or I should say early this morning, I had a dream...
It might have been around Thanksgiving time, or at the very least, around some time where my family and my sister's in-laws got together to make a huge fucking meal together. There was something about all of us going out and hunting chickens. Why we weren't hunting turkey instead, I don't know. It's why I'm not sure it was around Thanksgiving or not. Also, my family doesn't hunt, but my brother-in-law's family does. In the process of the hunt, we killed many chickens. My sister and her husband, on the other hand, did not kill a single chicken. Instead, for whatever reason, their fat-ass cat was out in the area we were hunting, and, again for whatever reason, my sister and her husband decided to trap their cat. The next moment, we're all sitting at a huge table. I'm sitting between my sister and her mother-in-law. We're all preparing our kills for cooking. I'm watching as my sister is holding down their cat and my brother-in-law cuts a small hole in the cat's stomach. A lot of air (or some other type of body gas) is released, but the cat's stomach does not cave in. While this is happening, my sister and her husband are saying something, but I can't remember what they are saying. The cat struggles and almost gets away, when my sister grabs a cleaver and chops off all the cat's legs up to about an inch from the body. There's no blood. As a matter of fact, it looks like the nubs are completely healed over. The cat struggles to move, struggles to run away. But it only falls and flounders. Around this time, I realize that the entire family is in the middle of discussing my sister's mother-in-law's past marriages and how her first marriage was just a marriage of convenience. At first, they just got a civil union, but later on decided to get really married. She then goes on to say that she married her current husband because it seemed like it would be.... and then I woke up with a start.
I'm not much into believing a dream has any specific meaning, if a meaning at all. Having a dream about fucking your dog does not mean you forgot to take the trash out last Tuesday. It just means your synapses fired in a specific yet random pattern. I've yet to see anything to the contrary.
It might have been around Thanksgiving time, or at the very least, around some time where my family and my sister's in-laws got together to make a huge fucking meal together. There was something about all of us going out and hunting chickens. Why we weren't hunting turkey instead, I don't know. It's why I'm not sure it was around Thanksgiving or not. Also, my family doesn't hunt, but my brother-in-law's family does. In the process of the hunt, we killed many chickens. My sister and her husband, on the other hand, did not kill a single chicken. Instead, for whatever reason, their fat-ass cat was out in the area we were hunting, and, again for whatever reason, my sister and her husband decided to trap their cat. The next moment, we're all sitting at a huge table. I'm sitting between my sister and her mother-in-law. We're all preparing our kills for cooking. I'm watching as my sister is holding down their cat and my brother-in-law cuts a small hole in the cat's stomach. A lot of air (or some other type of body gas) is released, but the cat's stomach does not cave in. While this is happening, my sister and her husband are saying something, but I can't remember what they are saying. The cat struggles and almost gets away, when my sister grabs a cleaver and chops off all the cat's legs up to about an inch from the body. There's no blood. As a matter of fact, it looks like the nubs are completely healed over. The cat struggles to move, struggles to run away. But it only falls and flounders. Around this time, I realize that the entire family is in the middle of discussing my sister's mother-in-law's past marriages and how her first marriage was just a marriage of convenience. At first, they just got a civil union, but later on decided to get really married. She then goes on to say that she married her current husband because it seemed like it would be.... and then I woke up with a start.
I'm not much into believing a dream has any specific meaning, if a meaning at all. Having a dream about fucking your dog does not mean you forgot to take the trash out last Tuesday. It just means your synapses fired in a specific yet random pattern. I've yet to see anything to the contrary.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Anger Rant
Today's blog is brought to you by a conversation that was more or less unrelated to the topic at hand, but that's how I roll.
Anger is a difficult emotion for me to express. Most often, it comes in bursts that quickly fizzle out, only to become sadness which usually seems like home to me. I'm used to being sad as I'm one of those Emo kids. No, I don't mean those AFI-loving, all black-wearing wussies who constantly threaten to slit their wrists. The Emo I'm talking about is the quiet guy writing shitty poetry about his feelings and the world as he sees it. I'm the Emo that hides many of his emotions by deflecting situations with humor, but could cry at the drop of a hat when my guard is down. But there has always been an undercurrent of anger in me. I like to think that it's my intellect that has kept me from being the violent individual I think I could become if I were less aware of the consequences of my actions. I never picked physical fights because I knew I was weaker than most guys, and I knew that I could vent my frustration with writing and moping about. Anytime I felt a physical fight coming my way, I would run like a motherfucker. Also, pain hurts, you know, so I tend to avoid it at all costs. There's that, and the fact that I've never seen much point in physically fighting when I could just belittle the fucker into a corner that they would just give up trying to have anything to do with me. I'm getting a little off topic, so I'll steer this fucker back before I veer too far off on a tangent. Like I stated earlier, when I get angry it would more often than not lead rather quickly to sadness. And so I've never really given myself the chance to adequately express the emotion of anger. I've been thinking about that for the past few hours, wondering if maybe I could find a way to express it more, to explore it. I need to find a way to keep myself from taking that next inevitable step into sadness to do it, and that's no easy task. But I can't help but wonder if maybe I'd find out something about myself if I focused more on what's making me angry rather than the aftermath of that anger. I love to study my navel, even if I'm about as deep as the kiddie pool in the backyard. I find my complete lack of interest in most anything rather interesting. I often feel like I'm observing myself from the inside out trying to get back inside. I love heavy music. When I listen to it, I don't really feel like I'm experiencing someone else's pain, I feel like I'm accessing some part of me I'm not normally aware of. When I watch movies, I love horror. I love the violence inherent in most of them. When I read books, I love reading about people in horrendous situations doing unspeakable things to other human beings. And I don't know why. I've got a great life with little to nothing to complain about. But the anger is still there. Maybe it's just the material I'm subjecting myself to. But maybe it's not. Further investigation is needed.
I'd say that I'm determined to find out, but more than likely later in the day, I'll happen upon a video of a kitten doing something cute, and I'll forget all about my anger question.
Anger is a difficult emotion for me to express. Most often, it comes in bursts that quickly fizzle out, only to become sadness which usually seems like home to me. I'm used to being sad as I'm one of those Emo kids. No, I don't mean those AFI-loving, all black-wearing wussies who constantly threaten to slit their wrists. The Emo I'm talking about is the quiet guy writing shitty poetry about his feelings and the world as he sees it. I'm the Emo that hides many of his emotions by deflecting situations with humor, but could cry at the drop of a hat when my guard is down. But there has always been an undercurrent of anger in me. I like to think that it's my intellect that has kept me from being the violent individual I think I could become if I were less aware of the consequences of my actions. I never picked physical fights because I knew I was weaker than most guys, and I knew that I could vent my frustration with writing and moping about. Anytime I felt a physical fight coming my way, I would run like a motherfucker. Also, pain hurts, you know, so I tend to avoid it at all costs. There's that, and the fact that I've never seen much point in physically fighting when I could just belittle the fucker into a corner that they would just give up trying to have anything to do with me. I'm getting a little off topic, so I'll steer this fucker back before I veer too far off on a tangent. Like I stated earlier, when I get angry it would more often than not lead rather quickly to sadness. And so I've never really given myself the chance to adequately express the emotion of anger. I've been thinking about that for the past few hours, wondering if maybe I could find a way to express it more, to explore it. I need to find a way to keep myself from taking that next inevitable step into sadness to do it, and that's no easy task. But I can't help but wonder if maybe I'd find out something about myself if I focused more on what's making me angry rather than the aftermath of that anger. I love to study my navel, even if I'm about as deep as the kiddie pool in the backyard. I find my complete lack of interest in most anything rather interesting. I often feel like I'm observing myself from the inside out trying to get back inside. I love heavy music. When I listen to it, I don't really feel like I'm experiencing someone else's pain, I feel like I'm accessing some part of me I'm not normally aware of. When I watch movies, I love horror. I love the violence inherent in most of them. When I read books, I love reading about people in horrendous situations doing unspeakable things to other human beings. And I don't know why. I've got a great life with little to nothing to complain about. But the anger is still there. Maybe it's just the material I'm subjecting myself to. But maybe it's not. Further investigation is needed.
I'd say that I'm determined to find out, but more than likely later in the day, I'll happen upon a video of a kitten doing something cute, and I'll forget all about my anger question.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Ever-changing Reality of Why I Am an Agnostic
Nothing in this life is certain. Of that, I am certain. I was once convinced I was going to be a big-shot Hollywood director, only to find that film-making is actually quite boring and tedious, and working with that many people at one time is a horrible experience. I once believed I could read people's personalities pretty well, only to find myself married to a crazy bipolar person I couldn't get a proper read on even when she was lucid. I used to believe Jesus of Nazareth was my personal lord and savior, and then I found out about these little things called paranoid-schizophrenia and delusions of grandeur. I used to believe fantasy books were outside of my realm of enjoyment, only to find myself almost finished with the seventh book in a 13-book fantasy series, seeming to enjoy every book more than the last. What I'm vaguely getting at is, the whole "older and wiser" thing may actually have some validity. It certainly doesn't mean I know everything. All it means is I know more now than I did when I was younger. I've learned a lot about myself over the years. And I'm only now learning about these walking fleshy things around me some guy deemed "humans". I'm beginning to realize that my own proclivities for anything and everything are truly shared only by a certain group of people, while other proclivities are shared by other certain groups of people. I think the endgame for humanity is when we finally understand one another. That's a very very long time from now. Then again, it may never happen. I'm basing this idea on what I see before me in the world today at this moment. Chances are, I'm going to change my view with the times. I like to think that I adjust my worldview constantly. I'm given information on any number of subjects every day, so why shouldn't my worldview change? That is why I am an Agnostic.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Truth, Relatively Speaking
Is it possible for someone to be too honest? I used to think that it wasn't. Now, I'm not so sure. In general, women say they want a guy who is honest and upfront with them. I may not be the most honest person on the planet, but I know that I'm far more honest than many people. So, why is a ravishing hobo such as myself finding himself sans woman? Well, there's the whole "not going outside and mingling" thing. Then again, I found my last two girlfriends on the interwebs. So maybe going out into the big scary world these days is not so much a requirement to find love. It wouldn't hurt, but it does require pants, and fuck pants. I don't do that shit unless I have to.
It may come as a surprise to no one that I currently have profiles on two free dating sites. I would try the dating pay sites, but that requires money and feels almost like prostitution (not an entirely undesirable option at this point, really) and I'm all about the free stuff. Granted, my chances of finding a match would probably increase exponentially if I paid for it, but again, it's not my style. I'm a cheap bastard like that.
On both sites, my profile is full of lots of words and truths. Some truths are far from flattering. I admit that I'm hairy, sweaty, obscene, lazy, and generally strange. Those in and of themselves aren't necessarily dealbreakers, but they just might be when it's all there in the introduction to me. But I'm rather convinced those aren't the reasons I haven't gotten a response from a woman in months. The reason above all others, I believe, is that I state that I live with my parents after having gone through a divorce. Even I, a rather honest guy, considered that to be TOO honest. And yet, it's right there in my profile, for all to see. Ever since I put that in my profile, I've considered and re-considered deleting that. But it's still there.
Recently, a few friends have suggested that maybe I ought to put that I live at home because I am taking care of my elderly father. At its most basic essence, this is completely false. But when I stand back and look at the big picture, the claim becomes truth. My father is far from an invalid, but he's in his early 70s now, so he's no spry little fucker any longer. In some more or less involuntary ways, I AM taking care of him. My friends claim that, since my dad is as much of a social retard as I am, my presence in the house alone, even if I'm always up in my room and nowhere near my father, makes him happy. I CAN see that, but that doesn't really scream "taking care of my elderly father".
But then there's days like today where I went with him to go grocery shopping. I pushed the cart, while my dad filled it with the necessary foodstuffs. Again, not so much a big deal. However, when we got to the checkout line, I started unloading the cart and my dad said to me, "I'm gonna let you unload the cart from now on. It's easier on me if you do." Again, not a big thing, but given what he said, it has made it more obvious to me that maybe I'm not literally wiping his ass and changing his diapers and feeding and clothing him, but I'm doing the small things for him right now. It's as if I'm being trained to help not just him, but my mother, who works hard all day. By helping her husband maintain things, I'm helping her as well. I read over what I just wrote, and it still seems like bullshit, but it also seems kinda true. Again, it's that whole "not true, but becoming true" thing.
I'm not saying that I'm "doomed" to be my father's nursemaid-person-guy until he knocks off. I'm saying that I DO help him when he needs and wants it. It's not often that he needs or wants help right now, but the future may be a different story. I'm saying that maybe I need to not look at a situation so coldly and basically. I'm saying that maybe I COULD put in my profile that I live with my parents to help take care of my elderly father because I do, even if it's in mostly inconsequential ways for the time being.
Then again, I could just be rationalizing to make myself feel better about not having a full-time job and a place of my own, like I'd like to have.
It may come as a surprise to no one that I currently have profiles on two free dating sites. I would try the dating pay sites, but that requires money and feels almost like prostitution (not an entirely undesirable option at this point, really) and I'm all about the free stuff. Granted, my chances of finding a match would probably increase exponentially if I paid for it, but again, it's not my style. I'm a cheap bastard like that.
On both sites, my profile is full of lots of words and truths. Some truths are far from flattering. I admit that I'm hairy, sweaty, obscene, lazy, and generally strange. Those in and of themselves aren't necessarily dealbreakers, but they just might be when it's all there in the introduction to me. But I'm rather convinced those aren't the reasons I haven't gotten a response from a woman in months. The reason above all others, I believe, is that I state that I live with my parents after having gone through a divorce. Even I, a rather honest guy, considered that to be TOO honest. And yet, it's right there in my profile, for all to see. Ever since I put that in my profile, I've considered and re-considered deleting that. But it's still there.
Recently, a few friends have suggested that maybe I ought to put that I live at home because I am taking care of my elderly father. At its most basic essence, this is completely false. But when I stand back and look at the big picture, the claim becomes truth. My father is far from an invalid, but he's in his early 70s now, so he's no spry little fucker any longer. In some more or less involuntary ways, I AM taking care of him. My friends claim that, since my dad is as much of a social retard as I am, my presence in the house alone, even if I'm always up in my room and nowhere near my father, makes him happy. I CAN see that, but that doesn't really scream "taking care of my elderly father".
But then there's days like today where I went with him to go grocery shopping. I pushed the cart, while my dad filled it with the necessary foodstuffs. Again, not so much a big deal. However, when we got to the checkout line, I started unloading the cart and my dad said to me, "I'm gonna let you unload the cart from now on. It's easier on me if you do." Again, not a big thing, but given what he said, it has made it more obvious to me that maybe I'm not literally wiping his ass and changing his diapers and feeding and clothing him, but I'm doing the small things for him right now. It's as if I'm being trained to help not just him, but my mother, who works hard all day. By helping her husband maintain things, I'm helping her as well. I read over what I just wrote, and it still seems like bullshit, but it also seems kinda true. Again, it's that whole "not true, but becoming true" thing.
I'm not saying that I'm "doomed" to be my father's nursemaid-person-guy until he knocks off. I'm saying that I DO help him when he needs and wants it. It's not often that he needs or wants help right now, but the future may be a different story. I'm saying that maybe I need to not look at a situation so coldly and basically. I'm saying that maybe I COULD put in my profile that I live with my parents to help take care of my elderly father because I do, even if it's in mostly inconsequential ways for the time being.
Then again, I could just be rationalizing to make myself feel better about not having a full-time job and a place of my own, like I'd like to have.
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